


flannel is a love language

by peachpety



Series: Autumn Drarry Drabbles [26]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Autumn Drarry Drabbles, Developing Relationship, Draco is a Fashion Maven, Love Confession, M/M, flannel shirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpety/pseuds/peachpety
Summary: Harry loves Draco’s style, especially when he wears flannel.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Autumn Drarry Drabbles [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956262
Comments: 29
Kudos: 110





	flannel is a love language

**Author's Note:**

> Day 26 of Autumn Drarry Drabbles, y'all! This one...comes a bit late. I hit a bit of a wall, in this the home stretch of these ficlets I embarked upon to write. This is what I have to offer the anon ask for the prompt _when he wears YOUR flannel_ , and it was a struggle. But it helped me realize that I do so enjoy this process, and to write, even when it's difficult, is worthwhile. Thanks to toluene for the encouragement, as always, I flannel you! (p.s. Ezra Miller in THAT PHOTOSHOOT, y'all know the one, was my inspiration for Draco) Enjoy! xo peach

It begins with a Saint Laurent choker.

Harry catches a glimpse, a flash of silver, beneath the crisp collar of Draco’s tailored oxford buttonup. The risotto sits barely sampled on Harry’s plate the entirety of dinner, celebrating Hermione and Theo’s engagement, so fixated is he on a wicked smile over a glass of wine and how cold metal would feel on his tongue.

At brunch the following week, Draco’s nails match the crimson leaves that rustle on the trees outside the window of the cafe. Harry drinks too many mimosas and freely divulges his thoughts about tongues on metal while grey eyes darken like asphalt wet with rain. Under the table, Draco’s hand strays to Harry’s thigh, and Harry decides red contrasts nicely against denim.

In the guest bath at Theo’s flat two weeks later, Harry discovers that the white lace knickers Draco wears underneath his pinstripe trousers match exactly the pearl caught in the mouth of the snake bracelet encircling his wrist. Draco sucks a bruise onto Harry’s neck as he ruts against him, skin hot under soft lace, and Harry comes in his pants like a teenage boy, gritting out Draco’s name.

They fall into each other’s lives and into each other’s beds as easily as autumn leaves falling from the trees. Their friends laugh and smirk and lament that they always knew _even back then._ Harry smooths away Draco’s scowl with his lips and later peels away designer floral trousers like a gorgeous candy wrapper to suck and savor the mouth-watering treat underneath.

It’s the unexpected hints of incongruity Draco deliberately and tastefully fashions, sometimes noticeable, sometimes hidden that makes Harry’s heart careen against his ribcage and his skin tingle. He often daydreams about Draco in luxurious fabrics, in delicate laces, in polished metals. Every meet-up Harry can’t wait to see what Draco will wear next.

It’s at an event for the Granger/Nott bridal party — another luncheon or whatever — when Harry first notices it.

A hint of red and black peeking out from underneath the collar of Draco’s Gucci leopard-print blazer.

Draco winks at him from across the room, and slips loose the jacket button to reveal Harry’s buffalo plaid flannel. Harry spends the next five minutes apologizing profusely to Mrs Nott for spilling champagne on her silk dress, and then spends the next hour half-listening to conversations with his hands discreetly touching Draco’s forearms, biceps, back, shoulders.

And then he spends all night worshiping pale angles softened by cotton flannel.

Sometimes Draco styles the shirt with leather, sometimes with creamy white wool, and that one time with that bloody Saint Laurent choker that Harry now knows feels deliciously cold on his tongue slipping underneath sterling links. Every time Harry sees red and black against alabaster skin, three little words rise up from his core to wedge behind his heart lodged in his throat.

Harry’s not sure what possessed him to do it. It could have been Draco’s scent in the flannel fibers or the memory of Draco in the flannel that morning, misbuttoned over sleep-warm skin, bare legs tucked up, softly sipping morning coffee. But Harry slips on the shirt and pins on one of Draco’s brooches, the snake one with the emerald eyes, a Malfoy heirloom.

Draco doesn’t notice until Harry shrugs off his jacket at the rehearsal dinner. His grey eyes darken like asphalt wet with rain as he trails crimson-tipped fingers sinuously over the metal. He stays by Harry’s side all evening, always within reach. They leave the party early, falling into bed and into each other, hands and bodies as urgent as a heart’s confession.

Three little words falling from lips as softly as a shirt removed and whispering to the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me indulgently lurking on [tumblr](http://peachpety.tumblr.com/).


End file.
